dmseay

He waited out in the parking lot for her. She was looking for milk, eggs, bread, maybe some ice cream; wasn’t sure. The middle aged man sat in his pick-up truck, an old Ford, and played with the radio dial, going back and forth ‘cross the FM stations. Picked up frequencies from Iowa City, Des Moines, some small Illinois towns, farming communities.

She ran into Peg inside and they began to talk; the boys were growing up fast, prom was coming up, and graduation was just ’round the corner. The two blondes giggled at the thought of their boys getting a high school diploma. Peg said, I remember changing his diaper, she laughed. And now he does his own laundry, Peg smiled.

Benny lit a cigarette and settled on a country station. It was Johnny Paycheck singing, Take This Job and Shove It. Benny sang along. He wondered what was taking her so long. Probably ran into somebody, he said under his breath, Always does. Emmylou Harris came on next. He wished he was married to Emmylou. Good looking woman like that. His wife was attractive, but, she was no Emmylou. He thought about that. Going down to Nashville and sweeping Ms. Harris off her feet. Daydreamed about it. He knew the difference between reality and daydreams. He used to not. He’d get stuck on a notion and couldn’t shake it. Drove her nuts. Like the time he thought he could drive in the Indy 500. He pestered her with that for weeks. Finally gave up on the idea. Finally.

As Peg walked away, she noticed a tattoo on Peg’s right calf; a small heart with her daughter’s name in it. It was red with blue cursive. Mindy, it read. That was her name. Died when she was real young, some sorta cancer. She remembered feeling real bad for her when it happened. She brought over a cake. They sat there eating it on the front porch. Well, she ate. Peg couldn’t take a bite. She watched her walk away down the bread aisle. Shook her head. Eight years old. She was eight years old, the house wife thought. I am so blessed.

He saw her coming out of the store and he turned the ignition. She put the items in the back seat. They smiled at each other. They smiled. The radio was playing an old Porter Wagner song. He hummed along. She sat back and was nice and quiet. It was time to go home.

The moon shined. Real bright in the midnight sky. He’d look up at it from time to time as he drove ‘cross Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, on into Ohio. All on I80. Just him in his Dodge drivin’. Not goin’ anywhere inparticular. Just drivin’. Like he’d lost his mind or somethin’. Flyin’ on coffee and cigarettes. Tossin’ butts out his window. Watchin’ em bounce behind him. A lit tip dyin’ out. Slow burn.

And he’d fiddle with the radio. Tunin’ it in as he drove ‘cross states. Tried some AM stations. Just talk, talk, talk. People callin’ in ’bout the president, ’bout the government, ’bout their cat caught up in a tree. Lots of lonely souls out there. Lots of em.

But, that moon. It haunted him. Made him think backwards. Rememberin’ events from his past; the deaths of friends, lost loves, ex-wives, the ones that got away, the time he fished in Old Hickory. His mind just wandered. Felt a stuffed wallet in his back pocket. Filled with receipts and cash. The stimulus money came in handy for gettin’ lost in America. Spent it the way it was intended; gasoline and beer. He was doin’ his part to make America great again.

Oh shiny moon up in the sky, he said. You’re a trickster. A real trickster, the old man whispered. Soon I’ll meet up with you. Soon. He lit another cigarette and took a swig of cold coffee. Thought ’bout dyin’ as he drove. Thought ’bout turnin’ the car ’round and headin’ south. And that moon kept shinin’ down on him. Enough to make a man crazy. Enough.

Soon this’ll be over, he thought. Hell, it’s been over before, he said. It’s just gettin’ close to the bone this time. That’s all. That’s all.

And the sun began to peak out from behind clouds. Another day was beginnin’. Another day.

This room is cold, he said. Could you turn the heat up a bit?,walking in circles with his arms folded. I mean, a little heat ain’t gonna throw our budget off any. This is the beginning of Spring, Winter’s got one more breath left, the old man put a sweater on, a Christmas sweater with reindeer on it. He drew the curtains back.

She sat quietly knitting a shawl. Long gold needles weaved in and out of the fabric. She was humming an old Patsy Cline song, keeping her eyes focused on her nimble hands. She’d look at him and shake her head. Been 36 years with the same man. She didn’t smile, never smiled. Had a grim look on her face. Prayed for the Lord to take her. The sun peaked through the clouds.

I’m going to the store. Want anything?, he asked. She shook her head, then said, Wait. You know those crackers. Those rice crackers I get with the jalapenos in em. I want some of them and a two liter of Fresca. He sighed, got his keys. Didn’t kiss her goodbye. Just got in his truck and left.

And he drove through town. Empty streets, empty sidewalks, a black cat crossed his path. It was like there was some kind of plague going on. The bars were closed, neon did not blink. There was no one coming out of churches, or, banks. A cop car drove by.

It was like the end of the world. Only Christ coming back would make it complete. Maybe that’d happen. Maybe.

He got to the Piggly Wiggly and the parking lot was filled with people. A line formed outside. All this for crackers and Fresca. He stayed in his truck and turned on the radio. Christ had been spotted over on Wells Street. Maybe this was the end of the world.

Winter was not marked this year; the snows of January never came. They’d watch out their front windows looking for hope amongst the gray and dreary days only to find a nakedness, a barren land where porchlights burned out long ago. And people, people gave up on a notion that God would see them through. Oh ye of little faith.

The older couple sat side by side with a quilt wrapped ’round them and his hand in hers. They were waiting for the day to end, evening to fall, a brown sun to fall from the sky and a hollow moon to rise. They waited. The same as the day before and the day before that. This was their religion. They depended on this exercise. It was just as important as eating. They didn’t look at each other. They looked at the sky. And, waited.

Their kids had long left. Started lives of their own. A son in Chicago trading stocks and bonds, while the daughter raised her own kids in Minneapolis. They would talk every once in awhile about how life was going. The grandkids would tell em they were loved. Seldom would the son and daughter say those words, but, the grandkids did. They found this to be interesting. Where did they learn of love from? they would ponder. No telling. No telling.

They both were not overly affectionate parents. Rarely did they hug or kiss their children. Both wished they had that ability, but, it was never there. Never in their grasp to reach out to the children. They would reach out for each other in private. All emotions were saved for closed places. That’s how their parents were. And, their parents before them. Generations of stoicism on both sides. Feelings kept intact.

In silence they sat there. Waiting for another day to be done. Another day of nothing done of any consequence. Just the slow steady pace of life winding down.

Steps were taken. They’d walk down the hall with each other. Tell one another goodnight. Close their doors behind them. And, wait for another day.

Never could figure him out. Sat there every night at the end of the bar lookin’ at people. Folks would drink and carry on. Some would get loud, boisterous; bartender would tell them to settle down. He’d just watch.

And they’d keep refillin’ his pint glass with ice and Dr. Pepper. A big man, he’d drink em down just as quick as they’d fill em; must’ve gone through eight or nine by the time he’d leave. But, he never got bossy or asked em for a refill. He just sat quietly, waiting, then thank em. Most polite fellow you ever met. There was a mystery bout him.

None of the young folks would talk to him. They’d look at him though with eyes shut, not bein’ able to see his beauty; wore the same old sweater every night. Could be a hundred outside and he’d still wear it; a white V-neck with reindeer on it. I guess Christmas was his favorite time of year; wore shorts all year round too. Could never figure him out.

Some said he was just a lonely old man while others told tales of some lady friend in Chicago. Never got a word out of him. Couldn’t tell ya.

At times he’d be gone for a stretch or two. Usually from middle of the month till the end. Said he didn’t have any money, just social security. It’d run out on him and he’d starve the rest of the month. Either that or go to St. Mary’s for soup.

Times I’d see him walk round town, but, mostly on that barstool. Never could figure him out.

They played these games in bed at night when they thought the other was sleeping. Backs to each other, feet occasionally touching, they’d speak in complete silent conversations with themselves; talked on the inside, mouths never moving, just quiet.

And, he no longer knew what she wanted from a man. Used to be she wanted some kind of American myth. A Marlboro man. Something that would stand the test of time. This long tall drink of water that would stay silent. Not let her know what he was feeling. Just be there to hold her hand in church on Sundays. She wanted a quiet man. That’s what her daddy was.

She’d lay there throughout the night. Lonely. Cold. Never enough blankets to cover her. Now she craved warmth. More than anything she wanted this man to turn into someone she could talk to. Wanted some kind of understanding from him. That was her dream now. To have that. She mumbled in the dark.

This man of her’s. Wanted Jane Russell. A woman with fire in her belly. Some woman who took care of his needs. He’d lay there dreaming of Jane Russell in that haystack rollin’ ’round with the tight top on. That was his dream. Lay on his side wonderin’ what that’d be like.

Come morning they’d remnain in silence. Each one displeased with the other; with themselves. They never wanted this; this silence between them. They wanted vacations to Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon. To ride horses down paths towards streams to take a dip into. That’s what they wanted. It’s amazing how things change.

He saw her in the window; the top half of her; washing dishes in the kitchen sink. That’s what it looked like she was doing. She was singing, or so it seemed. Maybe she was talking to herself. Having a conversation with the unseen; a ghost from the past. Some spirit that had come her way. Hard to tell.

Every morning he watched her. This husband. He’d be outside tending to spring clean-up and knew exactly what time she’d be in the window. Her pretty green eyes, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, it was the same woman he fell in love with all those years ago. Back when they were kids, high school sweethearts, parking under a June’s moon; were those days gone?

He hadn’t touched her in the longest time; really touch her. Deep down in her soul touch her. Sure, they’d make love, but, it wasn’t like it used to be. It was a performance; no connection.

And, he often dreamt of those days in the past when they did reach out for one another in the middle of the night. Was he falling out of love? Was she?

The husband of twenty years had grown a belly, lost some hair, and was beginning to hurt all over. And she was hurting too. Her soul was in pain. The kind of pain that makes you silently weep at night. Waiting to be touched. Deep inside.

So, he looked at her in the window as he raked up winter’s waste. She was the same he thought. The same. Why have I changed? why? ‘Cause life’s unfair, he mumbled. And went back to raking the yard.

And he sat in the Central Library typing away like a mad man struck by the holy ghost. Words just came to him, nothing complex. Perhaps that was the beauty of it all; simplicity.

He was always writing about leaving, running away, far away from home. The middle aged man wanted to go East, then maybe South, he thought about the West coast and the mountains of Montana. Didn’t want to take much with him, just a few books, some old jeans, work boots that would last in the sun. Wanted to walk from one place to another just living off the land. Berries, nuts, vegetables stolen from a garden in the middle of the night. The skinny man didn’t need much; his addictions had long since passed.

In the summer time he’d go down by streams and rivers where the waters washed him clean. It was his hope to one day be pure. Pure physically, spiritually, have a mind that was focused on words. Thoughts of the story he was writing and then the one after that. Let the words wash over him like the waters. Purify the soul.

But, it’s hard to be pure in America. The constant temptations of neon signs, the glare of a television at four in the morning, the internet with little to offer on a phone that cost $50 a month.

He gave it all up. Now he sits in the Central Library of a small town in America working feverishly on a book that will never be bought, sold, or read. He will leave it behind the same way he’s left all his belongings. Nothing to gain in this world. Nothing to gain.

She stared at her coffee cup on the kitchen table. Had an American flag on it waving in the breeze. Blue skies with small clouds painted on the cup as well. Nothing in it; an empty cup.

And the television was on in the background. Kelly and Ryan talking about nothing. ‘Cause that’s all there is in this life; nothing. She knew it, Beckett knew it, hell, even Kelly and Ryan know it; probably didn’t fully comprehend the notion of nothing, but they knew nothing existed.

You know what they say, she thought, twisting her jet black hair, Even if you believe in nothing you believe in something. Took her a long time to figure that one out; to concede to that point. But, she did.

Was she a Buddhist? no. Catholic? not really. She was just a person who believed in nothing. She believed in it lock, stock, and barrel.

The woman had nothing in her life. And it was nothing that kept her whole. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Does that sound bleak? Perhaps to the non-believer. The non-believer in nothing.

The waves rolled in from Lake Michigan. Some were white caps while others looked silky smooth. Like God had painted a picture.

We sat on the beach watching. Birds flew and swooped down. You could hear them calling out. Hungry for dinner. The sun was going down. Last of the dinosaurs; the birds and us. How is it that they survived? How did we?

And, we walked through Lincoln Park. Leaves on the ground. Fallen over the course of a season. Waiting for spring. Wanting green back in our lives. The smells of fresh cut grass. Daffodils in bloom.

She held my hand. And, I her’s. This time of death. Darkness set in. We stopped for coffee. In silence we drank our joe. She pointed at cheesecake and smiled; her scarf around her head.

While she played with her food, the silence was broken. We don’t have many more days like this one, the thin woman said. Soon it’ll all be over, she smiled.

Yes, soon it’ll be over. Here’s to new beginnings.